


Pencil Pusher, Pencil Skirt

by 54prowl



Series: Pencil Pusher, Pencil Skirt [1]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Final Fantasy VII Remake Spoilers, Friends to Lovers, In Medias Res, Midgar (Compilation of FFVII), No use of y/n, Non-Chronological, Reader-Insert, Sexual Tension, Shinra Company, Smoking, Turks (Compilation of FFVII), Unresolved Sexual Tension, post-Nibelheim Incident
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:54:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24216994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/54prowl/pseuds/54prowl
Summary: Moogle search:workaholic remedies(Previous title: Conscience)
Relationships: Reno (Compilation of FFVII) & Reader, Reno (Compilation of FFVII)/Reader
Series: Pencil Pusher, Pencil Skirt [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1747927
Comments: 18
Kudos: 159





	1. Conscience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You sure? You know, don't you think it's a little late for you to grow a conscience?"

She idles away at work, chewing on the half soggy lunch she missed a few hours earlier.

Afternoon break activity at the Urban Development Department work floor is uneventful, to say the least. Even with the recent events, a clerical job at a company that employs hundreds of people will be as entertaining as it can get.

At least the pay is decent. But it’s not like Shinra’s budget for this department is huge, what with the bloated expense of Public Safety and all. Being on the frontlines of a terrorist attack should definitely be compensated well, anyway, asinine as the whole military sounds.

She sets aside her half-eaten sandwich to type a new email accessing documents upon documents on damages around Sector 1. When the Gil hit seven zeroes she closes the email tab.

That can wait.

Stretching from her desk, her back cracking from the strain, familiar albeit slightly limping footfalls echo beyond her cubicle. She blinks slowly, evening her breathing.

For all that bravado, he sure had the guts to show up to her department at this hour. To make his presence known to her, if at all, without the usual late-night shadows or overtime hours to obscure himself with seems entirely off-brand.

He pauses just outside the flimsy wall, as she stands, still and solid, whispering, "Why are you here?"

He winces at the accusatory tone.

Peeking above her cubicle, looking around for eavesdropping gossip-mongers before he even gets to knock behind the divider.

Only a couple of people appear to be on the work floor. Most of them on the 63rd for a change in scenery. She breathes a sigh and runs exasperated fingers through her hair.

She still moves to accommodate him in the space, far too gone and even a tad bit expectant of his unannounced visits to her office to be truly upset.

Eyeing down the man, exposed skin illuminated by the fluorescent office lights, he shows blooming cuts and bruises. Something tells her there's more of them under the once-immaculate — yet sacrilegious given the buttoning — white dress shirt that he wears.

He leans against one side of her desk, carrying with as much grace a beaten man could muster with each careful step.

She breathes before continuing, a headache already beginning to form at the back of her head, "You do know we have an infirmary, right?" It’s a wonder a Turk like him even got around here without getting scurried off first to the nurse. Isn’t that protocol? But that’s the benefit of being one after all, stalking around poor little office ladies during their mere break minutes to be a nuisance.

He barks a short laugh before he could hold himself back and his body tenses up at the exertion. He's yet to say a lick of an actual word to her but she doesn't mind. She wouldn't know what she'd do if anything clever comes out of that mouth of his, anyway.

She asks him to wait there as she runs to her floor’s small pantry slash break room to gather what she could use to treat the routine aches and bruises that come with a high-ranking officer like himself, stopping by the refrigerator to get him a drink. She was really saving this one for a special occasion.

He has unbuttoned the rest of his shirt by the time she walks back to him, goggles tugged out of its usual position on his forehead, and coat hanging loosely on the back of her chair. He’s looking quite pleased with himself when he catches her staring as she offers him a Potion soda bottle. The thing had a tape with her name on it, and she saw him grin wider as he took a tentative sip.

"Just surveying the damage," she murmurs, moving her keyboard and paperwork out of the way and placing a first aid box and a pack of ice on top of the makeshift space. She’s entirely too thankful that the floor doesn’t have surveillance cameras.

"Obviously," he replies. Ah, there’s the Reno she remembers. He probably hurt his ego pretty badly if he’s being cross.

She quickly dampens a towel to place on his cheek, just under the red line of his cheekbone, wiping away the blood and grime of his injury. "So," she begins slowly, softly, as if scared to lose the careful balance he weaponizes with his mere presence, “a little too early in the day to get into fights, don’t you think?”

She takes a look at the watch on her wrist. Around 12 minutes before people start arriving back to the floor. This can be quick work.

He groans when she rubs the cloth a little too hard on a particularly sore spot, "What to say? I got beat, but," she hums and he chuckles, "you should see the other guy."

"Oh really?" He smells of cigarettes and burning, a tell on how his day has been like. She hasn’t seen his Electro-Mag Rod in action, but has watched enough exhibits by Weapons Development to know how Shinra weapons can pack a punch. She realizes that she doesn’t mind the smell as much.

He nods and positions himself so he's facing her more, looking everywhere except where her eyes are trained onto his skin. Like it burns him, somehow.

Narcissistic as it sounds, she thinks he likes being the center of her attention even for a while. But he’d likely bask in anyone’s attention, if given the chance. No, he definitely would.

Multi-colored post-its litter the far wall of her cubicle, Reno notes at a ‘conference with Director Tuesti at 11am sharp,’ in muted yellow dated for tomorrow morning, a ‘take Hot Sauce to the cat sitter,’ in a baby blue, among others. Her computer screen is set on a Gantt chart of upcoming events around sector 8. A framed photo of her, younger, with two aged faces and a couple more younger ones, out in a field somewhere he can’t recognize. He hasn’t seen a field like that in a while.

There’s also a takeout coffee cup on a LOVELESS cafe coaster, and funnily enough, on the sleeve is a hastily scrawled phone number.

Ah, and a BLT.

He swipes the thing and starts eating away as she inspects a contusion on his lower sternum. It doesn’t look bad but the angry bruise looks like a blunt bar, about two inches thick, and looks particularly nasty.

She distracts him from his musings as she opens another antiseptic wipe pack to dab on the lesions on his skin, shoving a part of his shirt to expose his right shoulder, "I know it's in your job description but I suggest that it's best you avoid fighting in the meantime."

“Ah, but it is in my job description,” he tuts, shrugging off the other shoulder as he continues to eat away at her sandwich. Can’t be avoided, maybe he’ll be called up for clean up work tomorrow, maybe there’d be nothing at all. Even the gods can’t tell.

And she, of all people, would know how much he values that job of his. In addition to mending his wounds that came naturally to her, albeit unpracticed, is on the short list of things she's knowledgeable about when it comes to him.

“Well, you're a dangerous man, Reno.”

“You know it, babe,” he replies almost automatically, the sound muffled of bread and bacon.

Finally noticing, she frowns at the wrapper and up the green of his eyes, “Uh huh, don't call me that.”

None of the wounds seem too bad. A light gash here, a small cut there. That’s possibly why he came to her in the first place.

Figures.

What was she to do should he have needed stitches?

Of course, the bruises were another story. It must suck, having to be beaten around on a daily basis. She’d never understand nor does she want to.

He smirks and points at her post-its, “You going away on vacation, or something?”

She looks behind her, a steadying hand on his upper arm. And she tries not to notice him shudder, “Ah, yeah. Next week, actually.” Her leave had just gotten approved. It’s been a while so she’s been looking forward to it.

“Looks to me that you have a hot date too,” he continues, raising an eyebrow at her.

Rolling her eyes at the paper cup, she can’t muster the strength to tell him that her co-worker bought the coffees for her and another cubicle neighbor. But it’s nice seeing him like this. Facade slipping through his curiosity.

Shaking her head she hums, “What? Jealous?”

“Why? Was the barista cute? Maybe I should take their number for myself, eh?” He’s full-on chuckling to himself now and she can’t help but hit his arm. He winces again.

“Maybe you’re not their type,” she deadpans, applying a salve to his wound, “your charm doesn’t work on everybody.”

“Works on you, though.”

She laughs and it's clandestine, only for him to hear, almost scandalous to his ears, if he was honest. But Reno is not an honest man. Hasn’t been for a long time now.

The confidence in this man, no matter false, can be terribly amusing. And she pulls a disgusted face right after, “Wishful thinking doesn’t become you.”

He gasps, faking tears and clutching his chest, “You wound me.”

“Reno,” she continues softly with the slightest hint of venom, but nothing lethal, “I’m innocent. You’re the one here blowing off steam on-duty,” she gestures at her watch.

“Hardly innocent,” he rebuts, scissoring up two fingers, “Aaaand, FYI, my conscience is clear.”

She scowls and he grins.

"You sure? You know, don't you think it's a little late for you to grow a conscience?"

She’s meant it as a jest, but it didn’t come off like that. His face falls, his exterior mask along with it. All the teasing sucked out of the vacuum of conversation just like that and she tenses.

It’s a sensitive topic, she knows. She really shouldn’t but, “Reno I — ”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“Hey,” She hit a nerve. His eyes dark and petrifying look directly at her, beyond her.

Her heart skips. She immediately misses the light conversation.

“Reno — ”

He shakes his head and just like that, his mask is on again. He smiles easily, too easily, "You sure you won't miss me during your leave?"

She goes along with it, not one to push him. He comes around anyway, when he wants to, when he’s ready.

"You're a bother. And you owe me lunch,” pointedly staring at his hand, now scrunching up what was supposed to tide her over until dinner, and dinner would be five hours from now, if the traffic isn’t so bad. She adds a small band aid to one of the deeper cuts, shoving away bloodied cotton into the bin under her desk.

He shrugs at the wrapper, cheap, convenience store-bought, kinda gross, “Chump change, really. My taste is,” he punctuates the word, eyeing her wrinkled office blouse and the mandatory pencil skirt she wears, “pretty expensive.”

"Okay big shot, if you have so much money, how come then, that you’re wasting my sorry old time for this instead of a proper hospital?" It’s rhetorical. It would be quite a spectacle if someone was to describe what the Turks do for Shinra on paper. So they don't.

"Aw don't say that, you know I like it when you touch me," he replies coolly and with that she pinches the swelling of his arm and he groans and swats her hand away.

“I’m done here,” but there’s mirth in her eyes, “get out of my sight,” she steps back and draws up the ice pack to offer him.

“Thanks,” he smiles, cheeky, and it makes her want to wipe that smile off of his face somehow.

Why is it always one or the other with this man? It’s dizzying, not having a proper middleground to stand on.

“Just pass my debit some lunch money,” she demands.

“No no, It’s a date,” and he slides off her desk, grabbing the ice pack.

She scoffs, “Stop talking.”

“It’s a promise when you come back,” he sticks his tongue out and beams. Gods help her, she can’t control herself, and she smiles in return.

She dismisses it, “Sure, whatever.”

He carefully pulls on his coat and goggles, walking away. He waves a hand before disappearing behind the sliding doors of the office.

It’s a few minutes, still, before the workers return. She puts the first aid box back to the break room, and finishes off the soda he left behind.

She gives up trying to write the email from earlier, mind distracted, leaning back on her seat.

Well, working on anything would be hopeless now. She hopes her vacation would let her clear her head a little more.

* * *

  
  


It was a little later when overtime fatigue hit her that she brought herself to the 63rd floor for a light dinner from a vending machine, probably a shower too.

It was one part expected and another a surprise that a plate just fell. Another attack, apparently. She’s seen the news on the flat screen, received emails on emergency meetings, plans on immediate reconstruction on the table, aside from relief efforts.

She thought she would have feared the possibility of her leave being disrupted. In cases like these and for people like her, vacation time is typically the first casualty. But surprisingly she’s calm. And there are worse things happening, sure, but she can’t be bothered to feel.

It’s like she’s detached herself from the panic and her selfishness. So she walks, beyond the clamor in the cafeteria, and the crowd of the halls.

There weren’t a lot of people about this time in this area of the floor, but one particular man stood out to her.

Rude was pacing about in front of the infirmary, a little bruised, suit having seen better days. He’s so lost in thought that he almost bumped into her when she approached.

“Oh, didn’t see you there,” he greets.

She wanted to ask if he’s okay but looking in the direction of the clinic doors, something else entirely caught her attention.

“Is uhh...”

He clears his throat, “Yeah,” he nods, ”he is.”

She’s straining her neck to look up at him, he looked odd for a second before she realizes that his sunglasses were off, “Will he be okay?”

“I think you know the answer to that,” he replies, as if it’s something to assuage himself more than it will her.

“Yeah, okay,” she looks at the bruise on his left eye. Another on his right cheek. He looks worse than Reno did this afternoon.

No wonder he’s called for a nurse this time.

She wanted to ask, how bad it was, what they were covering up, if they had anything to do with it. But she doesn’t. She smiles, hoping to be a source of comfort.

“How about you? How many pairs did you lose today?” She asks then, tapping her temple.

Rude scoffs and crosses his arms, “Just two.”

“Ah, a record!” And he smiles at that.

He hums. It’s a comfortable pause, a lull. She knows it’s not uncommon for the job but she doesn’t think she’s ever known Reno to be one brought back incapacitated. But she doesn’t know too much about him to be confident with the thought.

Just enough.

“Could you uh,” her hands fists at her sides, “tell him to call me, when,” she sighs, looking away, “when he’s better?”

It’s genuine concern that led her to ask. She can’t have him up and disappear like that.

“He probably wouldn’t like that,” Rude replies and she frowns. “I mean, you knowing his situation, not the,” his face reddens, “not the calling thing,” he clears his throat again.

She nods.

Men and their pride.

“It’s probably the first thing he’d do,” he adds.

“Don’t,” holding up a hand to stop him.

The man snickers, “No, it probably won’t be.”

“I know,” she reluctantly waves a hand, “Anyway, see you around, Rude.”

“You too,” he stands still as she walks away.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It sure has been a couple of years, huh? I was supposed to release this on April 17th, a week after Remake's release, but better late than never.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed and stay safe!
> 
> [tumblr](https://54prowl.tumblr.com/)


	2. Hot Sauce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Red, huh? I knew you liked my hair."

The Midgar Dream.

That’s what some people would call it. The financial gain of moving into the largest and most economically dominant city in the world.

It was her initial reason for moving to the Plate in the first place, among other things. Such as, free housing for tenured workers. And how it doesn’t rain often in Midgar.

'Averaging around 30 inches of rain annually, like the perfect Goldilocks zone for climate, the city boasts clear skies and mild weather, despite being surrounded by a desert.

There’s disaster preparation, should rainfall be out of the norm, proper sewage maintenance, et cetera.'

The works—or so they said in the pamphlets.

And just like so, the weather today was meant to be the usual. Even the forecast said it would be. So the moment she heard the first rumbles of thunder and felt the first droplets of rain as she exited the tower on her way home, she instantly regretted not bringing an umbrella. Or a raincoat, if the howling wind was anything to get by.

Apparently, a storm from the northern sea made landfall in the ten hours she was on the morning commute and at work.

She at the very least made it to the station before rain started pouring in, promptly encasing a small plastic bag over her laptop case's opening.

No take home paperwork tonight, fortunately. It seemed like her supervisor had a romantic Valentine's dinner and didn’t need to pester her about some new restaurant that needed PR work or any other accountancy reports to be sent to the boss.

Neither of those are even parts of her job.

Soaked to the bone, she rushes from the station to her apartment building. Every step filling her leather heels with rainwater, setting a pace that will surely turn her stockings muddy.

With lightning brightening up the sky every few seconds, the thunder accompanying them sounds louder and more threatening in the open streets, with its alleys and corners nearly abandoned aside from the people whose fate is similar to her.

The fat droplets of rain rang dizzyingly loud too and she thinks that in the amount of rain Midgar gets within the year, this storm perhaps brings a third of it, and they're still in the first quarter.

But what’s a bit—a lot—of rain splashing to her face and drugstore non-waterproof makeup compared to the comfort of her little apartment. The privacy of a warm bath that is surely deserved waiting for her. And maybe tomorrow she’d even treat herself to some discount chocolates.

A mundane life sure has its blessings.

Arriving at the building, she allows herself to breathe from the marathon home, shallowly yet finally escaping the torrential downpour under the small roofing by the apartment’s doors.

She greets the utility personnel with a quick hello and an apology before rushing up to her floor, ignoring their reply as she busies herself by pushing the buttons of the elevator, and damning the rainwater on the tile floor as her footing slips a bit in the process.

There's a shiver in her voice, she notes. The rainwater mixed with the final dredges of winter was frigid. She needed to get changed. And bathed. And fast.

Unlocking her door and turning on the entrance lights, she tries to peel off the heavy fabric of her coat then her blouse, letting her body drip the excess water on the entrance rug as much as possible.

Dragging the rug under her feet she rummages for a nearby towel. In the haste to undress once she's inside, she failed to notice the figure on her couch, and was halfway through getting one stocking leg off her thigh when a voice pipes up, effectively scaring the wits out of her.

"Hey," Reno greets simply, sitting down in the dim of the living room. Lightning hit him right after, bathing him in a halo of light like her own personal demon. He was sitting beside a box, a small one, under a relaxed arm as he lifted another in a lame excuse for a wave.

She waits for the thunder before saying, “Hi,” as a stupid reply, alarmed, suddenly holding the cold fabric of her clothes to her chest, almost tripping at her own feet, half wrapped in muddy black nylon.

She clears her throat and continues, anything to distract herself from the situation at hand, "Making yourself at home?"

It was then she finally noticed another pair of leather shoes by the entrance to her home. She must've ignored it in her rush. Pristine and polished genuine leather, the buckle making her think the damn thing had Velcro instead of something nicer—more adult, the state of them as if he'd been here long before she arrived.

His coat was on the rack by the entrance, as well. Hung meticulously despite the appearance of the man who owns the garment.

He clicks his tongue, eyes staring directly into hers out of respect, or maybe disinterest to, well, everything else, "Your spare was easy pickings," he says a little peeved, as if the inference that he couldn't is meant to belittle him.

Of course he'd know, she rolls her eyes. But instead of responding, she looks into the box beside him and raises an eyebrow, pointing from him and then the box, "We'll talk about this later."

"Go shower," he finally says, diverting her view back to him, "you'll get a cold," shooing her with a hand and looking away, allowing her a small bit of reprieve as she gathers herself to the bathroom.

She puts her clothes inside the washing machine for a quick rinse and dry as she waits for her heater to warm up. Inside, the scalding water was welcome to her nerves. It wasn't the blessed bath that she promised herself but it was good enough to pass. She had a 'guest' waiting.

She hadn't even realized how much she was freezing up until this point. She permits herself to bleed her heater dry, not that it's possible, fogging up her bathroom mirror, and pruning her fingertips before she finally steps out to get clothes from her bedroom.

The lights in the main room are finally on and Reno was in her kitchen, probably rummaging for leftovers or poisoning whatever she did have left.

Typical Reno things.

If he was any other person, he might've already complained at her lack of fresh produce. She could even hear her mother's voice complaining about her health, and the general state of things in her apartment, of unpacked boxes, and drab furniture.

He looks at her, hands closing in on her microwave and she wordlessly permits him to do whatever. He moves then, with bare hands and folded up his shirt sleeves, not voicing out further questions and motions about the space as if it's the most natural thing to him.

She gets to her dresser thinking about it. Not that she had much experience in the realm of interpersonal communication but that's normal, right? Or perhaps she's assimilating to Midgar society. One or the other.

It's that familiarity between the two of them. Comfort too quick to develop and too fragile to mention that it remains like so.

Undisclosed.

Unsaid.

Unacknowledged.

She was in no way willing to change that, anyway.

And that would've made her uncomfortable already, if she too was another person.

"You didn't even text," she comes back to her living room, in a shirt far too long, far too old, and sweatpants that needed to be folded lest the hem be dragged across the floor, completely devoid of office makeup with her hair wrapped in a towel.

"I did," he says and she remembers suddenly that her phone had died before she left the office. It was still a flip model and he'd even laughed when he first saw it.

"And you couldn't wait outside?" She could've at least hidden her body or some last speck of dignity from him.

"I was enjoying the view," lifting his bowl of microwave popcorn for show as a smile creeps up on his already sharp, already dangerous features. "Red, huh? I knew you liked my hair."

She knits her brows. This man. She wanted to say it wasn't completely intentional. She wanted to feel a little special. It was the 14th for crying out loud. It was a terrible idea in the end. And from experience, flapping her mouth at him won't change her disposition, only worsen it.

It’s barely dinner time and her choices have been catching up to her. And nothing would pacify the man sitting on her secondhand pullout sofa.

What even is there for dinner. Thunder reverberates once more, the storm still going strong. Even though it's not illegal, she's not the kind of asshole to have food delivered amidst a storm. She also has a couple thousand gil to her name til the next paycheck and then that cutoff would mostly go to rent and some to send back to her parents.

Free housing for tenured workers, as they said. She's far from that.

He adjusts in his seat, shit-eating grin still plastered on his face, crinkling the blue and green of his eyes, "Pretty sure you wore that for me," he said, blowing air to his fringe.

She scoffs, "You wish."

Now Reno would possibly think of her as anything his mind could conjure up or pinpoint that she's miserable enough to wear something nice on a special occasion despite living alone. But in the end, it was none of his business.

And her business currently, is what he even went to her apartment for in the first place, unannounced and uninvited.

She points, “What even is that?"

“Oh this?" He puts his bowl of popcorn on the moving box that constitutes as her coffee table and opens the crate.

There's a cat, a kitten, sleeping inside it. White with splotches of black and orange. She feels her heart clench yet her mind's curiosity is piqued, previous conversation wholly forgotten.

She narrows her eyes then, “Reno, why do you have a cat with you? It's probably animal cruelty for you to be around random pets."

The jostling might've woken up the poor thing. There's a yawn and small flicks of the ear as it slowly rouses.

"Boss' 'paramour' didn't like him," he replies with disdain, almost like the word is a personal offense to him, "said she wanted a gray one or something."

That's one weird way to put it. She crosses her arms, "So you send him to me."

“Seemed like you’d be into cats," he shrugs as if it's the most obvious conclusion to everything.

She lifts an offended finger, “And why is it that you assume that?”

To be fair to him, she was. Only a monster wouldn't be. But friends don't just assume things about the other without nurtured prejudice. She doesn't like the insinuation of labeling her a cat lady when she's barely getting her life together as it is.

Cat ladies are realms beyond her.

He made an irritated noise at the back of his throat. Caught in the act, then.

“Look, are you gonna take him in or not?” He gives a non-answer. It is becoming glaringly clear to her that he's an expert on diversion but she's learning to be good at reading him just as well.

"Reno, listen—"

She wanted to say that it's a huge responsibility. The kitten has walked out of the crate now and it's not some roadside cat.

Of course his boss' girlfriend would want a pretty looking cat. This one's a purebred shorthair, unfortunate enough for everyone that this kitten was a calico. Then again she's halfway to refusing the kitten just for being a kitten.

Reno doesn't take it that way. Or maybe he did, but he's already jumping three steps ahead of her.

"Oh are you asking for something in return?"

He smooths his shirt, "A night with yours truly maybe?" He says this in all the dramatics of feigned innocence, purity. "You're daring, I like that in a woman."

She decides then that no. He's five steps back.

Definitely.

"That would be a terrible idea," her voice is flat but her expression softens at how the kitten immediately jumped up on Reno and he doesn't seem to mind that it's kneading on his slacks.

"Hah," slinking back to his normal posture, "but you didn't say you wouldn't."

"Gods. Give me a minute to think this through, okay," she sits now next to him and she pets the kitten before realizing that her hand is dangerously close to his—

"It's gonna be fine. Your lease didn't say cats are allowed," his eyes fixated on her hand—or on the kitten, "also didn't say that they weren't so that's practically ruled out on my book," he explains simply, leaning back on the sofa, exposing the column of his throat and she notes how his adam's apple shifts. The magic vanishes when she realizes what he just said.

Trying to arrange her features into something stern, she ended up looking mostly in questioning shock, "How the hell did you even know about that?"

"You're pulling my leg here," he deflects, leaning forward and jusf about to stand, already grabbing the kitten, "I can take the rascal elsewhere-"

She stops him with a hand on his shoulder, "That's not it," and he sits back down and waits for her response, the kitten back to bumping its cute little head on his palm.

"I feel like there's a catch to this," she declares as she shifts on the couch to better angle herself in the conversation.

"No catch," a shrug and a slow blink in her direction, "just you helping out a friend, see?" With this, he lifts up the kitten to her face. It meows once, a soft and tiny sound, and wiggles to be put down.

Now it's her who rolls her eyes at him, voice devoid of humor, "What's in it for me, Reno?"

Once the kitten is placed back down on his lap, he lifts his hands in defeat, "Fine, I give up."

It's her turn now to pick up the meowing kitten to put on her lap, "So?"

"I'll go help set up for the little guy," he pats the kitten on the head, "and go help you too since I don't think you'd be moving any time soon," he gestures at the apartment.

It's still mostly empty. Save for boxes on the corner where a new desk should've been the past how many months, another box where the spice rack her dad made her bring by the kitchen cupboards, and there's more in her bedroom where her bed with no frame lies but she wouldn't want to discuss that since she knows Reno will mock about how it makes perfect sense that nobody else wants to lie in it save for her.

So instead, she calculates it in her head. It's not so bad a bargain, at all. A little help settling down would do her well. But a cat still seems like too much a lifelong investment.

Yeah? No.

Probably.

She ends up just nodding at the proposition, anyway.

"So there," he claps his hands once as if to seal the deal, "send me a date of when you're off and I'll hook you up with someone I know."

Oh.

So it's not him helping her then. She doesn't fully understand the feeling of sudden discomfort. Did she want him to personally help her? The guy has an irregular schedule. She can't possibly rely on him.

"Fine," she says, sounding more disappointed than she expected.

"Good," he offers his right hand for her to grab and gives a firm shake.

She looks at his ungloved hand and immediately notices fresh wounds on the knuckles like he'd just punched a wall or three wall-sized men.

He catches her and withdraws his hand, like her gaze burned, a rare almost abashed expression on his face. Does he think she doesn't know?

There's a pinch in her chest. She's old enough, lived long enough to understand how strong corporate men need men like him. To clean their messes for them. Just as essential as her education being used as a pawn to expand the technological horizon of the very company he also works for.

She knows her place in society and understands the complications of it. She knows his place in society and respects it.

She just wishes he'd take care of his hands more, is all. Is that so weird?

The clock reads a little after eight and she feels her stomach rumble. Heading to the kitchen, she tries to look for anything she can conjure up as edible, leaving him on the seat with her now-kitten.

Closing one of the cupboards to get a can of beans she remarks, "Felt like I didn't have a choice there, anyway."

He laughs, bright and carefree, "Nope. You fell perfectly for my scheme this time."

"Why are you doing this again?" She asks, opening the fridge, grabbing half an onion? And a small block of cheese. Okay. Cool. Tasty, tasty dinner.

"What? I felt bad for him," looking at the kitten now curiously roaming about the couch.

She focuses on chopping the onions, body easing into a well-known routine, "Didn't take you for one to get attached."

"You don't know a lot about me," he picks at his popcorn looking out her veranda.

"Wouldn't want to," she turns on the stove to heat up her meal for the night.

Cooking cleared up her head a little, the reality of things settling in. Sure onions with beans and cheese on top isn't really an upper plate gourmet dish but it's better than just popcorn. Thanks, Reno.

He stands up this time, walking to the window of her fire escape with a pack of cigarettes in hand, "You mind?"

This catches her attention, looking down to where his fingers are tapping the pack and answers quickly, "You know I don't."

"Thought you hated the smoke," he notes, lighting it with a zippo, and clicking the lighter back to put in his pocket.

"I hate the brand," the sizzle of the pan making her raise her voice a little more but the last part only barely above a whisper, "The smoke's just fine."

She leaves Reno alone as she finishes up cooking, grating what's left of the cheese on top when she's transferred the beans to a bowl. It's not much but it gives her a sense of normalcy to eat with proper cutlery.

He's taking a drag when she walks back to him, warm bowl in hand.

"That's the worst chili I've ever seen in my entire life," he says blowing a bit of the smoke to her face.

"Oh hush," she says as she takes a bite. It wasn't terrible. It's sauteed beans with onions and cheese on top. It tastes fine.

By the gods she misses fresh eggs.

The kitten has now been walking about the living room and she scratches her head at the thought that she'll need to lay some newspapers out on the tile for the time being.

Reno was in the middle of another drag when she spoke again, mouth full, "So the boss ditched his date?"

"Nah he's probably with the chick right now," he scrunches his nose and answers curtly, like her lack of manners, or more so the question, left a bad taste in his mouth.

She spoons at her dinner staring out into the streets below, "Upper plate folk sure are different."

The rain hasn't let up but poured down gentler. It made the residential buildings look as if they're bathed in orange gold under the street lights. Lights within houses and condominiums muted by it. The winds howl and she shivers at the breeze. She didn't notice his eyes glance at her as he takes another drag.

"Tell me about it. Rude gets to run errands and take the boss home wrecked," he scratches at the hair on his nape, "Wouldn't wanna be him."

"Wait, so they're on a helicopter?" Her voice sounded in awe and Reno snorts.

"Are you an idiot?"

"What I thought you guys get to drive cool choppers all the time," she defends. It was a split-second thought and it registers belatedly that the two Turks flying but not being able to drive a normal car sounds dumb.

"That would sound like a terrible date," he shakes his head, mocking the implication.

"I think it'd be cool," she murmurs to her bowl, feeling a little embarrassed, "see the sights, you know?"

She wonders, sometimes, what the plate would look like, way up above. If the city lights would be as mesmerizing, if the thinner air would make it all the more breath-taking. Surveying the lower plate at work was already thrilling, she wonders how much more flying would do to her.

He rebutts coolly, removing her from her thoughts, "Can't blow someone from all the turbulence."

"Reno—"

"Fine fine. You're a romantic, I get it," he dismisses her but looks as if there's silent revelry in the new information he's freely given.

"Thank you," she shifts to face the inside of her apartment, the kitten now seeking warm affection by bumping on her leg, "Anyway, what should I name him?"

Reno feigns contemplative thought, “How about Cumlord—”

And without skipping a beat she replies, “No.”

“How about that," he chuckles amused.

She spoons the last of her dinner, "Hmm maybe something about food?"

"Like a snack?" He scratches at his temple with a finger, finding the idea a bore compared to what he just suggested, "Go think about it."

He moves to lean on the windowsill, blowing out the last dregs of smoke, flicking the butt of it off the fire escape. She would've already complained about the littering except her eyes were fixated on the way the light hit his hair.

It's only gotten a little longer, long enough to need a small tie at the end. She suddenly wonders if it's soft, or if it's riddled with product even as it flows so naturally with the breeze.

And it looks fascinating in the dim of her fire escape, looking almost fluid despite the spike of it. Red, so red and glowing almost into an orange as it reflects what street lights reach her apartment.

It reminds her of something. Something like—

"How about Hot Sauce?"

He hums, lost in thought for a moment but eventually looks up questioningly at her, "I thought you wanted it to be a snack."

His eyes are glassy, sleepy almost. The cigarette probably helping ease his nerves and it tugs at something in her chest, something she opts to ignore as she knows nothing good can come out of dissecting the thought.

"Well," she fiddles with her empty bowl examining the chip on one side of it, "it's still a food item." 

"Whatever," he resigns, straightening up to flop down on the couch. It's his own way of ending the conversation because he's tired or he doesn't care, and it's a blatant disregard for her permission whether or not he can sleep on her sofa in the first place.

She can't even find it in her to tell him that it's bad for his back. He looks incredibly comfortable on the lumpy thing.

As usual, he does things his way. She's certain he'd already contacted Rude to pick him up later on. How late, or early, she'll find out after he's gone.

The kitten, Hot Sauce, can now be found sleeping on the kitchen rug as she goes to place her dish on the sink.

"Hey Reno?"

He responds with a grumble.

"What about the cat food?"

"There's a bag inside the crate," he answers and she says a quick thanks. And surely enough as she picks up the crate there's a small bag inside. Enough for the night and then some but not enough that she definitely has to sacrifice an off day.

She can almost hear him ask what higher priority thing is on her calendar, anyway, knowing that there's none. He's not wrong.

He's already asleep and lightly snoring when she comes back from putting the food and water in two small bowls and setting out newspaper on her floor. But still had the foresight to put Hot Sauce in his crate for the night and the kitten happily obliges, bundling up in the small cloth inside.

She manages to at least offer Reno a blanket, too, tucking it under his arms as he sleeps on his back, out like a light.

"Good night," she whispers, as if it's a secret. Oh, what her father would think of her now.

Lying down on her own bed, alone on Valentine's evening save for a new kitten from a man sleeping on her couch, she takes back her idea that her life is mundane. No blessings here.

And she dreams of easy smiles and chocolate covered strawberries and red.

* * *

When she wakes up a little later on, in the first glimpses of an overcast sunrise, she finds her sofa empty and the blanket haphazardly thrown on the arm of it.

Hot Sauce is still in his crate, curled up and peacefully asleep. She finds a piece of paper folded there, she realizes it's torn from the notepad she leaves by the kitchen.

Inside is a name and a phone number. And right below reads a note—

_ 'great carpenter, loves cats, _

_ also get him to fix your leaky faucet in the toilet _

_ see ya' _

No. She takes it back. Her life is perfectly mundane as it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clearly, it takes me a month to write a thing. Tell me what you think!
> 
> As always, stay safe.
> 
> P.S. I'm bad at responding to comments on here but I appreciate every single one of them. Do send an ask my way. I'll try to answer them. You guys motivate me to write more. Thank you for that.
> 
> [tumblr](https://54prowl.tumblr.com/)


	3. Picture Perfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why are you saying this?"
> 
> “Because it’s true? Because you look like you need to hear it from someone?” He counts on his fingers, “Because we’re friends?"
> 
> “We’re friends?”
> 
> “You sound surprised," he points a steel utensil at her, “Should I be offended?”

_ "Say cheers?" _

_ "It's 'say cheese.'" _

_ "Say cheeeeeeese." _

_ "Yeah. Cheeeeeeese." _

_ "Mom, they're being dumb again." _

_ "Okay kids. Come on." _

_ "You can go center. I'll go carry your sister." _

_ "You sure, dad?" _

_ "'Course, kiddo." _

_ "Alright, I'll set the timer." _

_ "Ten seconds, okay?" _

_ "I got it, honey." _

_ "Move a little to the left?" _

_ "Move, loser." _

_ "Yeah, loser." _

_ "No mean words to your brother." _

_ "Alright ten seconds, honey." _

_ "We're set. Come here, love." _

_ "Say cheese!" _

_ "Cheese!!" _

_ Click. _

She frowns at her freshly minted ID. Shinra's finally got a new model. All new look, with a chip to use for the company store.

The entire thing looks—

"Odd."

"Hm?" Her cubicle neighbor caught her attention. The doom and gloom of their appearance adding a hint of reality to the actual mood of the company.

"Yes, odd," they reply monotonously.

She nods for them to continue.

"I thought you were aiming for,” they pause, “was it Project Manager for roadworks this year? Your ID doesn’t have any changes to it.”

Oh.

They look at her with bored eyes, slouched and looking the opposite of someone poking interest in her profession, much less remembering something she's said haphazardly months ago.

"Uhh, well. You know."

"I get it," they close their eyes in understanding, "Your natal chart definitely did not mention anything about corporate success in the new year's reading."

Natal chart. They’ve seen her old ID’s birth date and permanent address once.

Once.

She doesn’t know if she should feel flattered that her co-worker cared enough to look up her so-called natal chart. Much less break the news of her uneventful corporate doom. Or feel creeped out. But if her co-worker was anything, they were a good person. A weird but good person, that is.

Seeing her floor supervisor round the corner and she turns back to her computer, acting busy and diligent like a precious good employee. Her neighbor continues beyond the partition, "You should try for the presentation next month."

She whips around after the supervisor disappears from the office once more and they were staring at their chipped black nails, none of the pretense she held, eyes half-lidded as always.

She wanted to ask how they knew that. That she did have an idea for a presentation, a few on how to improve traffic and civilian areas in the busier sectors. But they were already moving on to a new subject about how the stars will align next week and how on Saturday, a few others will have a seance at their place. Pretty much the usual, apparently. Though after a moment they go back to the subject of her job.

"I think it would be nice to see a fresh face as project manager compared to these—"

She coughed, "Fossils?"

She thinks she hears them snicker a bit, "Yes, I like how you put it. Fossils."

“Thanks," she types at a status report due for a monthly meeting later, "Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

“Of course. I’d get in trouble for it too, won’t I?” They shrug once more and turn back to work, conversation forgotten.

Her mind prods at the idea. Project Manager sounds nice. It’s not a big deal. Promotion isn’t a big deal at all. A few thousand more Gil back home wouldn’t sound too bad even if it meant unpaid hours to work on a project plan that may not even be approved. Geez.

Maybe they'd get to fix the annoying rafters her mom wrote about. Or get to send her sister a little more money for the community college she goes to. The little things.

She mulls the idea over during lunch when her phone rings. She has a new one made with sleek black glass, well, it’s secondhand but works perfectly fine, while the older flip model she mailed back home.

She doesn't hesitate to answer when her old number, well, from her old SIM, pops on the screen.

“We had to take dad to the hospital,” It’s the voice of her younger brother, pitch lower than she recalls as he grows from child to teen. There was a crack in it as he tried and failed to calmly relay the news to her. Her heart thrummed at the shock.

He explains it like it is, how he knows she’ll understand best and quickest.

He recounts that their father was in a collision while away for deliveries. The accident had their one truck wrecked and her father left in the hospital for a hairline fracture on his clavicle. That was the worst of the injuries, but her brother noted that their father didn’t tell them the insurance on the truck had long since been left unpaid and the fracture would need a couple of weeks of mandatory physical therapy.

What's worse about the situation is that the culprit got away. Apparently some young folk were seen touring around their town on a Shinra model car. An investigation is on the way. Apparently their father was not even the first victim of reckless imprudence in their region.

‘Not the worst of it,’ their sheriff apparently said.

He manically told her not to worry, as she completely lost her appetite for lunch that day. That he'll speak to the doctors to see if they can pay in installments. That he's been studying well enough under this mechanic after school that maybe he'll get to repair their truck. All this said in a single breath.

She wanted to interject that it's not going to be okay. Mention that he should be doing homework not working with a mechanic like some sort of apprenticeship.

But he stops her. Explains that he just wanted to tell her that maybe they'll need more cash in the coming months since harvest season isn't really happening any time soon.

Dad has too much pride, he'd said. Wouldn't want a family man to trouble his eldest child when she's just finding her footing in life. She tells him that she understands and reassures that she'd send more money home as soon as she's able.

She's at a loss for words when she unconsciously sends cold regards to the rest of the family.

Her brother hung up, saying he needed to save battery and credit, promising to call again soon. He would have been perched up on the hill they used to hang out in as kids because it's the only place he can get a decent signal.

She wishes she’s home. She wishes she’s there.

After the call, she groans into the palm of her hands. Loud enough only for her solitary table in the cafeteria to hear.

Smoothing her forehead and the bridge of her nose, she tries to recount what's needed to be sent home. The cost piled up in her head, and it worries her more than she can possibly take.

Maybe planning for that conference is more necessary than she'd like.

Or maybe she can just get a part time job somewhere. At least that idea’s more probable.

Right?

But the first order of business after this work week is a drink. One she hopes would clear the air a smidge. Put things in perspective.

One last night of freedom before she grinds herself to dust? Brilliant.

But drinks on the plate cost a leg and she really needs to save some cash somehow, if there was even more to save. She checks what's in her bank and how she can even squeeze in a little more without having to actually sell a kidney. So she books it to the next best thing.

Well, as good as it gets.

After passing by her apartment to dress down and feed Hot Sauce, she rides the next train down to Sector 6’s Lower Plate. She was in for a night of soul-searching, pretentious as that sounds.

And Wall Market looked absolutely insane at night. If there should be a one takeaway, she has no regrets with seeing that view.

Neon bloomed in every corner and the volume of people and music were nearly overwhelming. Every square meter she walked on had a different scent—some floral, some savory, possibly some rotting meat in that corner there.

She walks aimlessly, looking for a place to knock back with a chilled drink. The bright signs and pumping sounds of a club isn’t usually her style, but she still places an order for their hardest cocktail and sits on the far end of one wall near the exit, vibrations and sweaty bodies mostly avoided. Afterall, a change of pace is what might do her some good tonight.

That is, until she spots red spikes of hair in the distance. She thought it was a trick of the ever changing strobe lights but it’s definitely him. Goggles placed perfectly on his head, ponytail to his broad back, laughing at something a faceless stranger was saying.

She doesn’t need this right now.

It wasn’t that she’s ignoring him. And it wasn’t that she can’t be herself around him. Gods, no.

It’s only that sometimes, the way he is with how he presents himself with his work, makes her want to level herself with him. Somehow, no matter what job he’s getting himself into, she wants to be able to take pride at where she is too.

Maybe last week that’s fine. But that’s not her at this moment. So the first idea that popped in her head is to hide from the constant one-sided competition where only she loses.

The bartender comes with her drink and asks if she knows the guy. He’s a chipper looking young man, eyes slitted in a friendly smile. She figures that it’s part of the job. She hopes it was. And decides that she doesn’t like it.

“Uhh no...” she answers cradling and slumping into her first drink of the night.

“Tell me if he'll cause any trouble," he says slipping away to tend to the other customers.

Oh.

So Reno’s not a regular. He sure looks the part. Comfortably lounging in one of the VIP tables, if the stanchion rope dividing her section and the dancefloor to his was any indicator. 

It’s a while into her hiding her face behind her drink and a few comments from the bartender that people have started arriving in full force. The club started becoming too claustrophobic. She ignores the sting of the drink as she downs the rest of it in one go, syrupy sweetness the only chaser to the kick of the alcohol.

She beckons over the bartender, paying for her drink. The man looked slightly disappointed as if her silent company was of any comfort. But she doesn’t owe him that, despite his offer for another drink on the house.

‘Because you seem to need it,’ he said, looking into Reno’s direction. Did she look that uncomfortable?

The fault wasn’t with Reno. He didn’t cause much fuss, not even once looking her way. Not that she was staring, no. It’s not really hard to miss the flare of red, like a warning sign in a crowd.

It’s honestly just the crowd. She’s out of her depths in it.

Reno spent most of the time looking at his friend, or client, or target. So she slips away quietly among the lightweights at the entrance of the club and looks for something more her style. More mom and pop.

A pub. Yes, that sounds good.

She finds one a couple of streets over. Complete with the rickety looking door and a front porch littered with empty bottles and splintered wood. It was a comforting sight. And the laughter from within with the establishment beckons to her.

She missed the smell of floor wax and beer stains, used to going with her father to the pub he frequents after working at their farm. Of course it was during a time she still wasn’t allowed to drink. Not in front of him, at least. So she's too familiar with the smell of malt beer and cigarette smoke that it's a sense of comfort, almost.

Sitting down at a corner table, she orders a rum and soda. The early evening fanfare for this joint seems to be stage karaoke, some darts, and the quiet chatter from a sparse number of diners.

Observing them, she put her mind into waxing poetic. If anyone invented the word opposite of solipsism that sounds just as cool, that would be the word she’d use. Everyone’s doing their own thing. Being happy, moping, creeping.

Would it have been weird to contemplate life as she knows it behind an alcoholic beverage?

Of successes.

Failures.

The ticking clock that is her bills.

More failures.

Her family.

Her career.

Who it's really for.

For herself?

For others?

If both then, how could she set her priorities?

What should she do next?

She consciously tried not to dwell on what she could've done. Gods be forgiving, that rabbit hole leads to absolutely nothing. She needs concrete steps. A balance. Smart decisions.

She wonders if she should even have children. Would she have the time?

At this rate?

With who even?

She chastises herself and chalks it up to missing her family. People to come home to. She often misses the chatter. Dinners together. The welcome companionship.

Nowadays she comes home to a cat. And maybe a phone call with her siblings once every couple of weeks if they're all hanging out at their usual spot while she sits on her couch, alone, with her pet.

Her mother still sends her letters sparingly. She wrote once that her hands ache far too much to do any intricate things like writing, or crochet, so she forewent sending her a scarf during the holidays the previous year, apologizing profusely in the process.

If the other patrons found her weird for almost crying while staring at the ice cubes melting in her glass, there's no indication of it in the crowd. She just keeps the drinks coming.

A sip from her third drink of the evening has her pleasantly buzzed. Skin warm, and pulse steady. It gives her a little courage.

She'll do the presentation. She has to try. Taking out her notebook, she resumes her earlier draft.

The core ideas are simple. Pedestrian safety. Faster traffic. Better public transport. Have people enjoy the scenery of the sectors. It’s a pretty image on keeping the peace and also increasing the quality of life in the city.

Maybe it's a tad bit ambitious and definitely too progressive for the age group she'd be presenting with but she just lets the ideas flow freely.

Another hour in and she's proud of what she's written. Maybe tomorrow she won't be. But her thoughts are eased by the fact that right now this is okay, despite the numerous other things that aren't.

Partway through her fourth drink and a light fuzzy feeling thrumming in her veins, she hears a commotion from out the street. Nobody else seemed to react to it, and even she thought it was just some random drunken men, until someone yelled.

"Please I'll do anything—"

More clamor.

Murmurs.

A thud.

The door to the pub opens. And down come crashing the faceless stranger from the club. Not so faceless now if the blood on his face was a feature he likes to keep on. She doesn't wanna be him if she could help it, and she just has the right guess on who's done that to the poor man's nose.

He hides in one of the restrooms, slamming it shut after getting his way in. She can hear him sob. The chatter continues on, normally.

If anything, that's a sign to go home. She wouldn't wanna miss the last train either.

Wanting to avoid any trouble and stay in one piece, she walks herself out of the pub.

Wall Market is big, with hundreds of people milling about in the night. She feels slightly dizzy, movements slower than she expected, like her bones want to jump out of her skin, her blood made of molasses, but she's fine, she can get herself home safely.

Just walk slowly.

Her phone rings as she steps out into the humid air of another street. 

'How's it going? You home?'

Ah.

She looks around and the street seems to be back to normal, street fights a normal occurrence enough here or intimidating enough to just be ignored. Again, with Reno, possibly both.

She doesn't respond to the message.

'Send me a pic of Hot Sauce. Or you in cute pajamas ;)'

Where she’d normally respond with snide remarks, she ignored and heads to a corner alley.

‘I see you reading my messages, sweetheart.’

Oh shit.

'Wait. Where are you? Your location says you're in Sector 6. You're either floating on an obliterated plate or'

Huh? How did he–

Right. Her phone model has that. He did help her buy it. If helping means pointing her to the sleaziest technician, sure. Classic Reno.

She turns off her location services and continues walking. Her buzz feels stronger with the noise of the streets and her sad attempt at normal strides.

There's no point in hiding anyway since she's already caught. But the petulance from her own frustrations and her own drunken denial makes her want not want to cooperate.

Her phone rings differently this time. A call.

Right when she turns to a corner, she sees him. He's right there spouting orders at other suits, right across the street, phone on his ear.

He hasn't noticed her yet until—

Deep-set eyes track to her face and realization hits.

Her finger shakily swipes to answer the phone.

"So there you are," the smooth voice on the line resonates, a touch delayed to the movement of his lips.

He casually strolls to her, neon flashing across his features. His own suit is still pristine, unbuttoned to his torso. He looks good.

Really good.

She's entranced. Dangerous flare of red for her drunken mind.

In hindsight, she wonders if she’ll think the same when she’s sober. Probably. But with thoughts not as loud.

He stops a few paces from her, expertly avoiding the crowd of bystanders, "Fancy seeing you here."

She nods.

"You're flushed. Had a drink?"

She wanted to shrug and say several but she just nods again.

"Everything okay?"

And another.

"You've been ignoring me."

She shakes her head this time, clearing her throat, needing to say something, anything.

"I saw the...uhh...the man, with the...nose." Genius.

"So you saw that too?" He shrugs as if to say, 'that wasn't me.’

She stares at him, brows furrowing.

"Don't believe me, huh?" He continues sheepishly, kicking a pebble with the immaculate leather of his shoe, leaning by the wall of the alley she emerged from.

Does it matter? Would how she treats him or saw him change?

This is the first time she actually saw a victim of one of his jobs. She doesn't really care.

Honestly, she’s just glad it wasn't her.

When she doesn't reply, he appraises her and grabs her hand. And her skin burns where it's connected to his. Alcohol sure does things to the senses, huh.

"It's very dangerous to be here tonight," a pause, “I mean, generally too, but you know.”

"Huh?" She dumbfoundedly follows him anyway.

"I said–" he stops, "Look I'll take you somewhere nice and you'll wait there for me until I finish this job okay?"

She frowns, "Okay."

He continues half-dragging her, "You haven't been sending me updates on Hot Sauce."

She doesn't lie, "I've been so tired recently. I get home so late," but she doesn't say the entire truth either.

"Don't tell me you're not caring for him enough," he accuses, stopping at the end of the main street, in front of a building. He puts a hand on her shoulder when she sways.

Her answer comes out a little whiny, a little too irritable. That maybe he should've taken him in.

But his reply is simple, "I can't," a soft laugh, "My apartment doesn't allow it."

She knew it. That's why he left him with her. Not to sound ungrateful but she wants to smack that grin off his face.

He guides her inside, her eyes adjusting to the lights that are too golden for her liking. But the air smells nice. Fragrant. Comforting.

And the decor may be a little too lavish for her liking too. But if it gives the intended effect, no matter what that may be, she can't complain.

She wouldn't admit that she misses his hand when he spoke to the concierge. Walking beside him, she stares at the host. Dark hair in gold pins, off shoulder kimono, classic red lipstick, and dark eyes.

She's pretty. Like a lady from a period piece. She fits the interior design perfectly and she starts to hate the decor a little less.

Reno speaks to her plainly, with familiarity. The place is apparently a spa, a massage parlor?

The lady greets him back warmly, almost affectionately with a, "Back so soon?" And for the second time tonight she wonders if the fondness to clients is a Wall Market staple. Three times, should she consider Reno and the welcoming man with the broken nose.

Suffice to say that her experience of customer service on the upper plate has been quite abysmal.

"Friend of yours?" The lady asks, eyeing her down.

Reno smiles, wide, his canines showing and nudges her side, "What do you say?"

She softly smiles at the lady, "I guess," and his face drops. But picks it back up in no time.

He asks for the ‘luxury course,’ winking back at her saying it's his treat and that he'll be back later and she best be a good girl and wait for him.

She kicked his shin.

He winces but waves her off, "Take care of her for me, will ya?"

The lady nods, ushering her down the hall behind them and closing the curtain partition to give them both privacy.

She introduces herself as Madam M. And notes how unusual it is for Reno to be skirting around random women.

She replies that she's not random, noting the slur in her voice. She's from work, after all. Many women there just like her.

"Maybe he likes them low-key," the woman opens a collection of oils and asks her to choose one she likes best.

She points at one that reminded her of a hot spring resort she visited before. As for the woman's statement, she merely shrugs. Nothing more to say to that. Whose honor would she be defending anyway?

Then Madam M asks her to strip, offering a robe as she's given a few moments of privacy.

Robe on and lying on the massage bed, she relaxes in the woman's hands. There's a bit of scratch from her longer nails but she puts the right amount of pressure in the perfect places. It feels heavenly.

"You're stressed, sweetheart,” she observes while working on a particular knot by her shoulder blade, “Work? Family? Men?"

Groaning at a certain glide of her fingers to her back she replies, "The first two."

"Ah. No men then. Too busy?" A press to the line of her spine as she sighs.

"Not in the agenda, sadly."

"Ah. Poor, kid.”

Did she mean her? Mean. But another press to her shoulder and she melts into expert fingers.

A minute later she speaks once more, "That Reno? I've known him since he was a boy, really, Ran all the errands I asked, no matter how ridiculous."

That's, quite frankly, unexpected information. She simply hums in response.

"Oh? Am I divulging?" A giggle, soft and sweet, "You tensed a little there."

"Reno doesn't tell me anything."

Madam M has moved on to her thighs, massaging the soft flesh, "That's sad. There's so much to tell."

"I never ask."

To be fair, there's always guilt in knowing information about him. Of things he didn't spell out to her. May it be reading between the lines of his mystery or simply hearing it from an old friend of his.

If anything, the less she knew, the safer she'd be in the long run. Is she a bad person to be thinking so?

As time went on, the idea of knowing made her feel...creepy. But the curiosity is there, all there is to it. Not something to be breached. She just holds onto the pieces he gives her. And to her, that's okay.

"Well, you should," the roll of her hands coming up to a soft clap on her calf, "since he keeps you around long enough to take you to me."

She's putty in this woman's hands. And that was the last she heard before she dozes off, woken up only to be asked to lie on her back. Madam M massages her head, then asking just how many drinks she had.

She forgot if she said 'enough' or 'too much.'

The woman laughs, "Well then, I'll get you some water later."

"Why are you being so nice to me?" Dumb question, but she felt like she needed something to fill the air.

Madam M just giggles once more, melodic and borderline flirtatious, "It's called customer service, dear. Luxury course, remember?"

"Yeah, that makes sense."

"And," a pause, "Reno is a friend."

Neat. She reaps the benefits of his connections.

Moving to her hands, she sees the masseuse's eyebrows shoot to her head.

"My, what do we have here."

It's rhetorical but she wanted to answer paper cuts, probably mild carpal tunnel? She's confused.

Maybe she is still a little drunk. And definitely not sober.

"A good head on your shoulders, I see," nails crawl from the edge of her palm tracing the line towards the fold just under her index finger.

The feeling makes her itch. Static under the skin of her palm.

"I guess lovers aren't on the agenda after all. This line isn't prominent one bit," she laughs as she traces the line just above it.

Her eye twitches. She wants to scratch at the skin.

She stops at another crease on her hand, "Fate and life don't matter much to me, you see. I believe it's pseudoscience crap, but it's interesting to see your hand."

What was that supposed to mean? Now she wants to know the entire thing. But Madam M stops the casual reading and continues with her work.

Sooner or later she says she's finished, telling her she can redress and she'll lead her back to the waiting area.

A pitcher of water and a glass are set on a coffee table waiting for her return. And she drinks generous gulps of it.

Madam M leaves her to tend to her other clients for the night, wishing her luck with her job and sends regards to her family. Light-hearted and professional on the surface, but she guesses that it goes deeper than that.

To her, it felt genuine, at least. Didn’t they just bond as Madam M read her life on her hand?

Minutes later with the pitcher all but gone with one trip to the restroom, she's sobered up enough. And when Reno finally came around, looking a little more disheveled, but a lot more relaxed than before he left her in Madam M's care, she smiles as she greets him.

"How was it?"

"It was nice," she says as he opens his wallet to pay at the counter, facing away from her as he does.

Still she waits for a catch. There's always a catch.

He looks at her with a raised eyebrow, sly smile punctuating his cupid's bow, "Just nice?"

"Very nice," rolling her shoulders once to point it out, "I needed that," and he hums in response, putting his wallet back in his pocket and offering her a hand.

"Come on."

She reluctantly takes his hand again as he walks her out of the building, slowing in steps, "You're taking me home?"

He cocks a brow at her, "No,” there’s a flash of disappointment in his features, “but if that's what you want."

She felt slightly petulant, slightly admonished. The dizziness is gone but she still feels a little mellow, a little too slow, too little care and too loose with her movements. She shakes her head.

"Alright. Dinner then."

Reno moves swiftly through the crowd, hand encasing hers as they pass by every alley and every building as if he knows where to go.

She halts after smelling something nice at this corner restaurant with a sliding door.

He tugs her hand, and her brows furrow.

"Want food poisoning?"

"Oh."

"Yeah. Don't understand why that old man can still run the place."

She wanted to answer something along the lines of bribes, or 'says you,' but the words die on her tongue. She just tightens her hold on his palm and follows beside him. She thinks it's the lights that make it seem like Reno smiled, a nice genuine one, when he continues to lead them to where they'll have dinner.

Much like the massage parlor, he takes her to another quiet edge of town. A little less crowded, less lights, and not a place she would roam should she have been alone.

He slides open the door for her, bowing deep and dramatically to her amusement.

The interior is quaint, wooden floorboards and chipped wallpaper sporting frames of a menu long overdue for an update. There’s stubborn stains on wood and rusty stools by the bar. In the far corner is a jukebox playing an old jazz song she’s heard countless times on the radio.

It's nostalgic. Like the old eatery by the port at home. She's spent countless of her birthdays there growing up. It was the best restaurant in town.

There isn't much people save for a few older folk surrounded by empty beer bottles. And he sits them both down at a table close to the kitchen, yelling for a name.

A nice old lady came to their table, wiping her hands on her apron and pulling a pad of paper and a pen.

Reno orders for the both of them. Winking when she was about to protest, saying he knows the specialties of the place and when the lady raised an eyebrow, he threw her a wink too and the lady laughs hearty and pure as she heads back to the kitchen.

She feels overwhelmed, she props her hands on top of the table, clasping them and rolling her shoulders. Perhaps it's too much information with too little explanation but one too many glimpses into Reno's life is just too much. Like she's being spoiled of the best parts of a TV show she doesn't even watch.

When she doesn't talk, Reno clears his throat.

"What's going on in that wonderful head of yours?"

"Huh?"

He leans forward, fabric of his shirt relaxing with his chest still on display as he sets his gloves aside. His hands are clean and unwounded, slender as he drums his fingers on the table.

"I said," he taps the wood just beyond her hands, smiling casually, "what's up?"

She tilts her head and he frowns.

"You're so not cute when you're acting stupid."

"What? What did I do?"

He squints at her drawing his eyebrows, "You've been ignoring me?"

"Told you I wasn't," her voice is defensive, a touch annoyed, her face looking away.

There was a moment where the door’s chimes jangle as a couple of the drunkards exit the diner, laughing away as they hobble outside.

"Mm yeah okay," he shakes his head and puts an elbow at the back of his chair, "so then what's up?"

"Nothing," voice irate.

"Look," he sounds exasperated, voice dipping into desperate, "if it's something I did—"

"Wait," she throws her hands up in surrender, "if it had something to do with you, I'd tell you." She knows not wanting to talk about it won’t be enough for him. Not when he wants to get himself this far into pressing her buttons.

Just then he slaps his hands on the table, "Ha! I knew something was up," he sits back down, relaxing, smug as the cat he gave her.

"Why you—"

"Nuh uh. Spill."

She glares at him.

"I said," enunciating the word, "spiiiillllll."

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose, “Oh Reno.”

He smiles back, sweetly, “Yes?” He caught her, he knows.

She lowers her gaze, smiling all the same, "Didn't take you for overbearing."

"Well it's because I ca—," and just in time the sweet old lady is back with a tray full of dishes.

It smelled divine.

The lady set down dishes of meat and noodles and rice all glistening gold with oil and broth and her stomach grumbles at the sight.

She knows the conversation will come back again but the food in front of her felt like a peace offering. Or his manner of sweet-talking her.

She's not going to lie. It's working.

He grabs the utensils and starts plating for her, looking proud at himself all the while.

She swoons at a mouthful of food, pure unadulterated appreciation for a warm home-style meal. And she's distracted at the thought, wondering what dinner would her father be having right now.

Bad hospital food, maybe. She hopes he's already home.

In between a bite of roasted spring chicken, Reno gets her attention again.

"So since you're not gonna talk, I'm just gonna ask, yeah?"

She's amiable now and he's eloquent, so she nods.

"Okay I'll give myself three guesses," a nod, "and if I don't get it right, I'll stop," and a clap of his hands.

She's in the middle of spooning some soup when he asks again.

"Are you in a multi-million Gil tax evasion fraud case?"

She chews her noodles before glaring, "Get serious."

"Ooh feisty. I missed that, babe."

"Don't."

"Anyway, but it's something about work?"

"Close."

A scandalous gasp, "Are you in a love affair with a workmate? You know that's not allowed."

"I said," a bite of a meat bun, "get serious."

"Fine."

"Last one."

He looks disinterested, flipping a fork through the plate of braised beef beside him before side eyeing her, "Anything happen back home?"

Bingo.

He smiles then, easy, friendly, dangerous, "Okay spill."

Despite her defenses, she knows she can't hide anything from him so she provides him every nitty gritty detail of her wreck of a life. He doesn't interrupt her. Not once as she spills the past couple of weeks on the table with half eaten egg fried rice and dumpling soup.

"That sounds like you," he says finally, finishing his plate of food.

"What's that supposed to mean?" She's nibbling on a dessert bun.

"You know, responsibility, stressing yourself over it," he flicks a grain of rice from the edge of a plate, "but we all know you can do it anyway."

"You mean the presentation?"

"I mean everything."

"Why are you saying this?"

“Because it’s true? Because you look like you need to hear it from someone?” He counts on his fingers, “Because we’re friends?"

“We’re friends?”

“You sound surprised," he points a steel utensil at her, “Should I be offended?”

She shrugs, “I wouldn't know," draining her glass of water, "You just always sound like you’re joking.”

"I'm serious," he sighs, "I have bad days too, you know."

A shadow of doubt crosses his features a moment. Quick enough to ignore but she’s learning to accept that she’s perceptive when it came to these things, to him.

She takes a chance, "Like today?"

He tilts his head, "Yeah, sweetheart," smiling forlorn, "like today."

He's silent for a while. Doesn’t explain and she doesn’t ask. In her mind, she solely fills in the gaps like gold on a once broken vase with him offering her piece by piece when he can.

When he wants.

And when it matters.

To her, Reno seems lonelier than he lets on. A maverick. Marooned in his own circumstances. Trapped in a possibly sadistic nature he tries not to show lest it scares her away.

But she's still here, isn't she?

And in the end, they’re just two losers unwinding from a terrible work week. Everyone’s had their fair share of that.

She tries not to feel guilty for her actions, of turning him down and leaving him hanging. But she does, anyway.

After paying for dinner, Reno takes her home. A small expense for getting her on the last train, he said.

They talk about anything they’ve missed the past week, in the rumbling rails of the train to the plate. Complaining about the pet peeves and paperwork while walking on the cobblestone paths winding around on the upper plate.

It’s picturesque, if she thinks about it. A perfect painted picture of two people on empty streets, simply enjoying each other’s warm company.

The air is clearer on the plate. And she relishes in it. Even if halfway through their trek home, Reno lights a cigarette to fight the late evening chill.

She asks him simple questions, an exchange for his inquiry earlier. And he feigns innocence at her shock after telling her how much the luxury course was.

It was pleasant. Just talking. Walking under the lights of the city.

Cordial.

Sincere.

Delicate.

Goosebumps rise from her skin at his touch to her arm when he guides her up the stairs to her building. He’d been careful, aware of the loose limbs from her slight inebriation and dedicated to his role as a gentleman for the evening.

She greets him good night and she goes up to her floor, flopping down immediately on her bed as Hot Sauce climbs up beside her, snuggling in a nest of pillows.

Taking a photo of the cat and sending it to Reno, she snuggles back under her blankets not waiting for a reply. She knows it'll be there in the morning.

She reached her goals for the day, after imbibing and dining, she’s soft and happy. Head clearer than it’s ever been. And though petty, she reconciled with her friend.

Before she drifted off she had this thought. If he would think her stupid if she said he was her best friend. When he had Rude and everyone else on a list before her.

Maybe she needs more friends.

The following Monday, when her co-worker arrived, she asked them immediately if they knew of palmistry. And when she asked if they could teach her, it might be the first time she saw her colleague pull a genuine smile.

She got an invite on the next coven meet up. As a guest, if not on a trial basis, so they say.

The discussion then went to her presentation, giving her tips on slides and formats that would work well with her idea.

By lunch, she gets a call from her brother telling her that their father is home, wishing her luck on her plans. And a promise to pull strings on their end, apparently due to him getting a scolding from both of their parents for panicking on her the past week.

These small things give her determination. Not just for her little side project but for most else.

She’ll make it.

She’ll try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which OL feels 10 thousand emotions in one night. Don't get too into your head, kids. Emotional isolation isn't healthy. And drink responsibly.
> 
> As always, stay safe.
> 
> hmu  
> [tumblr](https://54prowl.tumblr.com/)
> 
> PS. Should there be errors, the inbox is always open.


	4. Bias

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> President Shinra’s statue looks intimidating from this view, dauntingly looking down on anyone who had the audacity to come nearer, as if she’d ever seen the thing from any other angle.
> 
> The gold is a little much, though.

Her grip on the punch glass may have been a little too tight.

The announcement for the promotion was this fancy little gathering filled with higher-ups and whoever was brave enough to try out their ideas on the presentation.

Perhaps she was a little too optimistic.

And as much as she didn't agree on the pomp and circumstance of the announcement, seeing as the one who got the promotion was some executive’s nephew's godson's brother-in-law, well, that's enough. It wasn’t that she felt entitled to the position. But she saw their submission. She knew.

Nepotism is a curse.

She was one of the few who dressed in her office attire to the gathering. Since the organizers had absolutely no regard for any of them and held the event literally after work hours on a Friday.

But, to her not-surprise, most wore tailored suits and gowns fit for galas, never to be worn again. It felt immersive, almost radicalizing.

Almost.

She goes home with a baggy too big of leftovers from the buffet, handed to her by the nice old caterer with a small smile. She'd have felt patronized if not for the common understanding between Midgar folk like them.

She stares at the bag once she starts to separate them in containers to freeze. It's enough food for a week.

How's that for the consolation prize?

Her siblings call her at the usual schedule the following morning, as she holds back unshed tears of frustration and something else, something like hurt pride. They seem to clamor for the first dibs to talk, and she hears her mother reprimand them that they have limited connection as it is. So her sister excitedly tells her that she got a part-time job because ‘some old pal of dad's owed a huge favor,’ adding that she's in the safe part of town and dad will pick her up after shifts. "And dad never lets any of us down when he promises," she emphasizes.

She knows this.

Her brother then takes the phone and enthusiastically explains that this apprenticeship of his has started to pay. Just a little. For legal reasons. Because their small town's mayor or whoever believes in the power of hard work from young people. A true “sweat from your brow” type of man.

She can hear her sister’s smile on the other line, “You don't have to worry about us, you know. Things work out in the end,” and she sounded wiser than her years. 

So that evening she stares at the stucco ceiling and for a moment she corrects herself. No, rich people's nepotism is a curse.

* * *

President Shinra’s statue looks intimidating from this view, dauntingly looking down on anyone who had the audacity to come nearer, as if she’d ever seen the thing from any other angle.

The gold is a little much, though.

There is nothing to note on her sudden visit to the Memorial Museum during lunch. She was feeling a little melancholy, is all. A trip to the place would just be the deal. Definitely not to longingly stare at the 1/10,000th scale model of Midgar. Definitely not.

But first, she has to go through every one of the President’s mementos and past every broken hologram in the hall representing every department. The grating voice of the narrator-slash-guide should be changed, she thinks, but maybe it’s part of the charm to make it as cheesy as possible. To make the industrial complex seem a little friendlier.

She doesn’t buy it.

Hey, at least Director Tuesti's hologram is working. She was just thinking about the stuffed Shinra guard armor and taxidermy when someone clears their throat behind her.

“It’s you,” and in all his glory, there he is, her Department’s Director. For a second she thought that his hologram was working a little too well. But she’s been learning that things never work out as she thinks.

“Oh, sir. Good afternoon,” she starts, confused.

“I never thought I would bump into you here,” he laughs, a soft bashful tone unfitting of the expensive suit and sharp look.

“Sir?”

“Ah, my apologies,” he waves a hand, “I meant to say that I recognize you from your presentation. I must say I am impressed.”

“No need, director,” he shakes his head and steps back, giving her space to run or air to breathe. She tries to school her expression into one of calm, “Unfortunately, progress may have been aimed more towards larger infrastructures than improving quality of life.” It was true, despite her criticism of the vote, an intra-plate expressway sounds like a decent project to propose.

“But detailing improvements for such an important aspect of public affairs? That is something we often tend to disregard. I apologize once more, if I may. I did try to convince them to reconsider your position — ”

Extremely validated, she lets him speak, and speak he does, only stopping when he mentioned another job opening. This time without the celebrity of the new Project Manager of the Department.

"What?"

"I'm offering you a position, albeit more of supplementary work than a permanent post, of course." She's never seen Director Tuesti so unsure of himself. As he always spoke with a cadence that demanded respect.

"With all due respect, this is so sudden, sir." And this isn't really the place, which he probably noticed.

He shifts, "Well, this may not be the time to discuss, but if you finish with your duties earlier, we can have a meeting in my office," he seems to also notice her apprehension so he assuages, "my secretary will be there with us."

He walks away right after, almost vanishing without a trace aside from the telltale beep of the entrance key card reader and sliding doors.

Shaken, she retraces her steps back to her original plans. Perhaps she needs to get to the scale model to peruse; even more so than she originally needed.

* * *

She apprehensively knocks on the Director's office an hour before five and is greeted by a woman about her age, maybe a little older, wearing a cream colored satin shirt with a floral bandana on the neck. She looks like she's come straight out of Shinra's employee manual, a true model worker. Director Tuesti's secretary looks impeccable, ushering her in the sleek black office.

Expensive leather seats and a clear glass coffee table are placed by the entrance area, closing into the main office space. Multiple monitors line the director’s table, Urban Development’s logo as their wallpapers.

The director himself was flipping through some document, angling himself towards her as she sits in front of his desk, "So civil engineer, correct?"

Straight to business, it seems, she responds, "Yes, sir."

"That's great. We'll be needing a trainer for new hires," he says passing her the document.

“You grew up in a region with no Mako Reactors, no?” He says filling the space.

“Yes, sir. But I’ve always admired their designs,” she doesn’t mention that she does find the energy source a little questionable. It would make her sound like a hypocrite having to partake in it, after all. Though the idea is something a basic science class simply taught her.

The world is finite, and that’s pretty much it.

Still, his eyes light up at her words, and she recalls belatedly that Director Tuesti is the one who designed the structures. It’s genius work.

But she’s too busy skimming through the papers in her hands to probe into the fact.

It's outlined with plans from HR, and on the next pages, the new expressway project. It all seems to still be loose, perhaps as they wait for more concrete plans from the new project manager.

There’s confusion on her face, blinking from the paper back to the man sitting in front of her, "Sir?"

"It's a lot to take in, no?" He nods to his secretary, who then hands her a sealed envelope, "In there are all the details you need, duties, compensation, everything. I'll give you until next week to decide, just schedule a meeting."

Her bewilderment remains, "Sir, I'm very grateful for the opportunity but, why me?"

"I've told you, your presentation was impressive. Just the kind of spirit we need more of in this company," he shrugs, "or at the very least, this department."

"Director, I don't think other higher ups would appreciate that,” she then hears his secretary audibly gulp, perhaps used to his slips.

“I know,” he smiles a little too awkwardly, knocking on the table once. “Anyway, need I remind you that this post is temporary. Give or take a few months.”

She nods, “But what of my current job?”

“It’s better explained on paper, but you’ll basically split shift,” leaning forward he continues, “and we’ll delegate a lesser workload. If you accept, your supervisor will be notified of this, as well.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” the secretary supplements. And she gives a smile in return, still slightly confused at the entire scenario.

“Should you accept, of course,” the director emphasizes as she’s dismissed.

Things are going too quickly and conveniently. It is extremely suspicious. But nothing will happen without her consent so she takes a breath and files out of the office with the guidance of Director Tuesti’s secretary. Checking her watch, barely five minutes passed in the entire conversation. If it was possible, she feels both validated and cast aside.

They must be truly desperate for a trainer.

* * *

Her co-worker finds her a few minutes later sitting in her cubicle, a manila envelope open on top of her keyboard as she leans back on her office chair, draping an arm over her eyes.

“Hello," they greet, tilting their head at the envelope, curious.

She gives a subtle wave before pressing her palms to her eyes, groaning.

Her co-worker then picks up the contents of the envelope and quickly flips through it.

She snatches the papers back and puts it inside her bag, preparing to go home.

"This is great news, friend," they say monotonously, the effect of their presence a comforting gloom. “Will you be taking the offer?”

She had accepted her fate, a life of making ends meet and living paycheck to paycheck, for the rest of the year until an opportunity to climb the corporate ladder opened up for her once more. Not this, not this soon. "It's terrifying. It’s a responsibility I’m not applying for," she looks at the finished paperwork on the folder beside her desk, ready to be sent back to her supervisor.

“You must be thinking,” imitating the pitch of her voice quite well, “‘How can I not, right?’” They take a breath, “The director appointed you," they sit down on their chair, fixing their own bag, "I think that warrants something other than your acquiesce."

Confusion on her face, something that seems to be a common theme today, she looks to her co-worker, "Like what?"

They idly tap their fingers on their desk, "Do you think that Director Tuesti's judgement lapses?"

"Of course not," though she wanted to say maybe but the way the question was framed made her feel defensive, small.

"Then that's your answer," they stand up again, tapping her on the shoulder. “Let’s have dinner,” and a rare smile, “your treat, trainer.”

She almost lunges, shushing them, “Not yet!”

"If it's from him, it's as good as done," taking the folder from her desk, they walk together towards the work floor’s exit.

"You really think so?"

Handing it to their supervisor’s table, they shrug, “Yes. He is a weird one but I’m sure.” It seems, for the sake of it all, her co-workers rationality is the reason for the forlorn way of existing. Incredibly calming in her moments of doubt.

She wanted to tell them that they’re one to talk, but they silently walk towards the elevators to the lobby.

“Anyway, I can buy the drinks.”

The elevator dings, she beams, “Neat!”

* * *

She visits the director’s office a couple of days later. And when the contract for this trainer temporary post is to be signed, she brings up possible revisions. Slight ones. Ones that made the director’s lip quirk a little.

She almost jumps out of her skin when she finds Reno leaning on the opposite wall to Director Tuesti’s office.

“Hi,” putting a hand to her chest, she takes a deep breath, “Please don’t do that ever again.”

“No promises,” he smirks, “So what’s the verdict?” He looks from her to the door behind her. “You getting buddy-buddy with the director?"

"It's a job,” she raises an eyebrow as him, “and he's been my boss for some time, you know."

Standing to his full height, she tilts her head a bit, “But not direct boss, yeah?”

Expecting her supervisor’s shock will be one of the many blessings that would come with the job, “We just removed the middle man."

He slips in easy with her route back to her small cubicle, a little smaller now with her greater duties, "He's kinda weird, right? No funny business?"

She jabs at his side, "He is. And no funny business,” she puts all her strength in walking casually as another worker walks past them. Then she whispers conspiratorially, “Gods you couldn't imagine my whiplash on getting this offer.” But she looks forward to it, truly.

"That's a good thing, right?" He sounds genuinely concerned for a beat, stopping mid-step.

A tilt to her head, weighing it all again in her mind, she decides, “Yeah." Obviously.

"So you took the job," he states plainly, as if he himself is grasping the reality of it.

"How can I n —” a flash of a somber smile stops her, “ yeah, I did,” she corrects herself.

Reno looks to her questioningly before continuing, "Gonna tell your family?" He looks slightly bored now, studying his fingertips as he takes a step every two of hers.

"Only when the post is finalized."

“Careful now,” his voice drops a little, “you know how higher positions here are met,” then his eyes slant to tease, “I can’t always be here to protect ya.”

She gives him a pointed look, one that says she can handle herself.

"Hey,” he bumps an elbow to her, “Just looking out for ya.”

“Mm hmm,” she wanted to tell him that she really can. Nobody got out of the countryside without a little elbow grease, after all.

“As I've said, he's a weird one,” his eyes widening a little. “I always,” joining his fingers he leans to her, “see him tinkering about."

She can’t help but slowly blink at him. "So now who's buddies with the director?"

"Hey, if you've been in this company long enough—"

"Yeah I get it,” she rolls her neck, massaging the aching muscle beneath the collar of her shirt. “Don't make me feel so inexperienced. It makes me feel like I don't deserve this — "

"Attention?”

Exasperating, this man.

“ This job, I mean, ” stressing the word. She realizes slowly, how easy it is now to speak with Reno within the confines of the Shinra Building. The nerves from their first introduction to the awkwardness of being thrusted to the new dynamic, as he seems to like the push and pull while she sits idly by. What used to be only for their time off, now they can speak a little easier, setting aside rank for the ease of the other’s company. Only for a little while.

And then Reno jokes about how her skirt would tighten now that she’ll be receiving a larger paycheck so she smacks him on the head.

She hopes the security cameras didn’t catch that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unsure if it caused any confusion but our dear OL is from a family of seven. She is the eldest followed by a sister, two brothers a couple of years apart, and a youngest sister.
> 
> Next chapter soon. This supposed single chapter is split into two so that there could be better pacing in the plot, or so I assume. Tell me what you think!
> 
> If you find errors and such, just send a message!
> 
> hmu
> 
> [tumblr](https://54prowl.tumblr.com/)


End file.
